She hands me the document and the first thing I see, across the top in bold type, is Jeremy's name. Then the date—two days post-fire. To the right of that are three perfectly aligned names: Detective Sanchez, Ernesto Guerrero—now the superintendent of police—and one other.
Simon Trudeau.
22
Rose
* * *
I stare down at the document in my hand, my mind and stomach rolling. There’s no denying this. It’s smack in front of me where my eyes have fused to Simon’s name.
And his deception.
Rae and Detective Sanchez remain silent, both of them probably looking at me. I can’t know for sure. I’m too terrified to face them, so I don’t. Time enough for that later.
Right now? I keep my head down, studying the hateful details on the document. How my husband managed to sneak off for this meeting and then keep it from me, I cannot fathom. Both upset and reeling over the loss of our friends, we were nearly conjoined for those few days directly after the fire.
Rather than fly home immediately, we’d waited the agonizing few days until Gayle and Roland’s bodies were identified. We had, in fact, escorted them home on a private jet. No easy task considering most private aircraft lack the space needed to accommodate a coffin, never mind two. We’d managed it though, chartering the right plane, securing necessary documentation, including a confirmation from the funeral home and the noncontagious disease permits. All of it, we’d taken care of.
"Rose.”
Rae’s voice jolts me from my thoughts and before I can stop myself, I flinch. Dammit. So much for maintaining control.
Still, I open my mouth, managing to speak even if I can’t meet her eye. “Yes, dear?”
“Did you have any idea that Jeremy was questioned?"
Tricky territory here. I've waxed on about my beloved Simon, honoring him as a man who embraced truth and justice and dignity. Amazing how one little deception, a simple lie by omission, can upend an existence.
I pull my attention from the document and run headlong into Detective Sanchez’s pitying gaze. Quickly, I swing to Rae, who—thank God—has the rosy-cheeked glow of a reporter on the hunt. "I knew they spoke to him about the fire.”
I leave it there, then return to the notes, skimming the first few pages, all of it a jumble of questions and answers. The detectives pressing Jeremy for details about George and Myles and how the cash for the casino was handled. Was Jeremy aware of any inconsistencies or diversions from protocol when it came to the count room? The cashiers? The guards? No, no, and no. On and on it went, Jeremy denying knowledge of shady practices and his father, despite not being a criminal lawyer, deftly managing the interview by not allowing Jeremy to comment on certain questions. This was the Simon I knew. Patient, intelligent, and shrewd.
How could he have kept this from me? Damn him. Another spurt of indignation roars inside me and my pulse hammers. All I want is to storm from this room and call my son. He and his father lied to me. And worse, after the fire, I had noted Jeremy's behavior seemed off. He'd been moody and snapping at me. Nothing surprising, considering many of his friends and coworkers had died.
Still, I sensed something odd in his behavior. I even walked in on him during a phone call and heard him whispering about what he should say to the police.
Concerned for our son, I privately brought it to Simon's attention that perhaps Jeremy knew something about the fire. My adoring husband told me, for the very first—and only—time in our marriage, that I had lost my “fucking” mind.
It was an uncharacteristic, profanity-laced set-down that rattled me enough to never speak of it again. And now, I'm left to wonder if the notes in front of me were the reason I sensed something was not quite right with my stepson.
I hold the document up. "Detective, may I take photos of this?"
He stalls for a long moment, obviously weighing the ramifications. The longer he ponders, the less likely he is to allow it. "I give you my word," I say, "I won't tell anyone where I got it."
"Yes,” Rae adds. “All of this will remain confidential."
Finally, he nods. One solid jerk of his head. “If it will help, you can take pictures."
Rae gets to work, methodically laying out pages, rearranging here and there to suit whatever it is she’s going for. Me? I watch quietly, thankful for nothing to do while I absorb that almost a full year after my husband's death, thirty-five years after we married, I’m just learning our relationship may not have been based on the truth I’d demanded.
I have to wonder what other secrets Simon kept.
23
Rae
* * *
After an insanely quiet cab ride back that has me feeling more than a little twitchy, we march into our suite. Rose heads straight for the windows and stares out at the ocean. Her posture looks almost painful with how hard she’s pinning her shoulders back.
My hunch is that she'd love for me to just disappear and leave her to stew over what we found in Sanchez’s notes.
In the short time I've known the mighty Rose Trudeau, she's had a way about her. Regal, calm—the cop smackdown notwithstanding—and focused. She, in my limited view of the upscale, might even be a snob.
Her love for her husband and sons though, well, that's something made in fairy tales. Except that as far as I can tell, the fairy tale was just shattered. In a weird way, after what I’ve been dealing with from The-Town-That-Hates-Me, I get how it feels to think one thing and have the total opposite happen.
I stand for a second, staring at her back. I don't know her well enough to anticipate what she needs and I sure as heck don’t want to intrude. Maybe I should leave her alone. She's come back to this place that devastated her. That alone must've rocked her fancy world.
Throw in her husband keeping secrets? Total mess. And if it were me, I’d want someone to talk to. “Rose, is there anything I can do?"
The silence drags on as I wonder if she even heard what I said. I consider my options and decide not to push her. For now, I’ll leave her be and head downstairs to the business center where I can print all the photos we took of Detective Sanchez's notes. That'll give Rose at least a little privacy.
Before I take a step, she spins around and faces me, chin high. "Unless you can bring my husband back from the dead, no, there's nothing you can do for me."
Okie dokie. Last I checked, my talents didn’t include bringing people back to life. I point two fingers at her and cluck my tongue. “I’m good, but not that good. However, I’ve been told I’m an excellent listener."
She lets out a sarcastic laugh. "Off the record, I'm sure."
The zap of the backhanded insult shoots straight into my cheeks. Yes, I'm a reporter, and maybe we don't know each other well enough to be friends, so to speak, but I've been straight with her. I've been honest about why I left North Dakota and what this story means to me.
Well, maybe I haven't been completely honest. I never told her about the goon.
"Yes, off the record." I close my eyes for a second and rub my fingers across my forehead. When I look back at her, she's studying me like I'm a science project. "Look, Rose, I've done a fantastic job of screwing up my life recently. Right now, you’re about the only thing keeping me hopeful that I can pull out of this damn death spiral my career is in."
She waves that off. “You'll be fine. I’ve read your work.”
Coming from her, that’s a top-notch compliment. “I know I'm a good journalist. That's not my problem."
“Oh, RaeLynn, please."
"I haven't been honest with you.”
This gets me a glare so hard it should disembowel me. "Another one who's lied to me? Really?"
Lied? Maybe that’s harsh. I definitely omitted things, though. “There's one part of my story I left out. Last week I walked into my apartment and found a man in there, tearing the place up. Flipping over furniture, throwing my stuff around. My clothes were all over the floor."
She lets out a gasp. “My God, Rae, what happened
?"
"He was sent by Charlie Carter—the waterpark guy about to do twenty years because of me. He wanted to scare me. At least, that's what the goon told police. Charlie Carter lost everything, but there was more to the story. Additional finance fraud that would earn him a longer sentence. He knew it and I knew it and he wanted to make sure I didn’t write any more articles on him. I still can’t figure out how I got a criminal thrown in jail and now everything is my fault. I did a good job! How is that my fault?” I shake it off. Obsessing over the injustice of it all hasn’t helped me so far, but yeesh, an atta-girl from someone would have been nice.
"The police caught him?"
"Yes." I laugh. "My neighbor is a cop and heard me screaming after I subdued the guy. Then he was arrested.”
For a few seconds, Rose doesn’t move, and then her eyebrows creep up. “You…” She holds up a finger. “Wait, go back to the part about you subduing him. How on earth?”
“It wasn’t a big deal really.”
Except, it was. I kicked that guy’s ass—another thing I did right and nobody congratulated me on—and just thinking about it sends a weird mix of pride and fear straight to my neck.
When Rose doesn’t say anything, I continue. “He had dumped over a basket I keep beside my sofa. There's a pair of three-pound weights in there, you know, just in case I feel like doing some light bicep work while watching Buffy reruns. They were on the floor when I walked in, which immediately told me someone had been in my space, and then—”
The tension storming my body locks my neck up, the pain jabbing at me. Every time I think about that goon it pisses me off. I roll my head side to side, trying to get rid of the iron grip darned near strangling me.
Rose steps forward and clasps my arms. “Rae?”
Her touch feels…good. Warm.
Comforting.
Like my mom’s. Like the one I didn’t get after the goon incident because with all the hate mail and publicity about Charlie Carter, my parents were already worried. Telling them someone broke into my apartment? No. I couldn’t do that to them.
I peer down at Rose’s long fingers. Her skin is dewy and a soft beige polish covers her thumbnails. A mom’s hands. That’s all I can think. Tears well up and I shake my head, slamming my eyes closed, willing it all—the neck pain, the waterworks, my career imploding—to go away.
I did what I was supposed to do.
How, how, how is it possible my life fell apart when I did a good job?
“What’s wrong?” Rose asks.
Everything. I open my eyes and pressure builds in my chest. Breathe. I choke out a breath, blowing the air straight out. Into Rose’s face.
Great. “I’m so sorry. I’m fine. I—”
She squeezes my arms tight enough to pinch my skin. “Don’t you dare apologize. And you’re not fine. What’s wrong?”
“I just…It’s so frustrating.”
“What?”
“I did good.”
Her eyebrows come together. Of course she doesn’t understand. I’m babbling. “I wrote a good story, Rose. My work helped put a thief in jail. And then his goon, too.”
“And?”
“And…and…” Another spurt of anger surges and I’m blasted with an adrenaline rush so fierce I leap back, breaking Rose’s hold and jabbing my fists in the air. “How did I become an outcast when I did such a great job? It’s not fair, Rose!”
I sound like a five-year-old, but…whatever. I’ve been holding all this emotional garbage inside and I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.
“It’s not fair,” she says. “My dear, you got screwed. Royally.”
I drop my hands and my shoulders go with it, loosening enough to snap me out of my tirade as Rose’s words loop in my head.
I bend over, brace my hands on my thighs, and breathe. I got screwed.
Finally. Someone is on my side.
I let out a choking laugh. “Thank you, Rose.”
Her sandaled feet come into view and then her hand gently lands on my back as she strokes. Up and down. Up and down. “For?”
“Believing in me.”
24
Rose
* * *
“I absolutely believe in you.” I say, giving her a light tap on her adorable nose. “I’m sorry those small-minded people did this to you, because you’re exceptional. And brave. For goodness’ sakes, how many twenty-six-year-olds have the gumption to go after a man like this Charlie Carter? You did that. You. That’s what you need to remember. Forget those other people. They are, unfortunately, collateral damage. That’s Mr. Carter’s fault. Not yours. Now, tell me how you caught this goon.”
Rae lifts her hands, swiping at the last of her unshed tears. This poor girl. So smart and strong and learning hard lessons so early in her career. I’d like to tell her it will only make her better, but my sons always hated hearing that from me, so I refrain.
“I walked into the apartment,” she says, “and saw him. He was across the room and I was standing right near the dumped-over basket. That’s when I lost it. I started screaming. Just howling so loud hoping someone would hear me.” She lifts one shoulder. “I guess my instincts kicked in. I threw one of the weights at him.”
“You didn’t!”
She flashes a glowing smile, her eyes lighting up. If I do nothing else right today, I’ve made RaeLynn happy.
“I did,” she says. “Really. He swatted it away, but the other one clocked him.” She presses her finger to her forehead. “Right here. Bam! He stumbled backward and it was enough to give me the jump on him. A few seconds later, my neighbor came in. If I get lucky, the goon will take a plea deal and I won’t have to testify at his trial. During his interrogation, he admitted Charlie sent him. That was before his lawyer got there and now they’re saying his rights were violated. That the interview should be thrown out. So this thing could go to trial and I could be called as a witness. That’s another reason I hightailed it to Bel-Air. I had to get out of town for a few days and get my head together.”
“You're a brave girl."
"If I was that brave, I wouldn't have packed a bag and run. But thank you for saying that. You're the one thing that has made me forget my wreck of a life. I’m sorry for losing it on you. It’s just, well, I never told my parents about the goon. I didn’t want to worry them.”
I shake my head and lift my hands, holding them palm out. “Rae, you’ve been under tremendous pressure. And then feeling you couldn’t confide in anyone only exacerbates it. You had a moment. It was bound to happen.”
She offers a vigorous nod. “It’s…nice…to have someone to talk to. Someone who gets it. You know?”
I do know. Right now, I’m in my own emotional hell. Coming back to La Paradisio and facing the Grande should have been enough for one trip. But no. Thirty years later, I’m discovering secrets kept by the ones I love most.
“Yes,” I say. “I believe I do know. You may not realize it, but you’ve helped me. People are brought together for a reason. I think meeting you helped me realize I've been running, too. Now I have to face it and you’re helping me. Your story, Rae, is helping me."
I’m not sure what I’m doing, spilling this all to a near-stranger, but it’s as if the cage door has been unlocked and freedom is just on the other side.
In front of me, Rae holds up her hand. “High five,” she says.
We exchange the requested high five, but there’s something in her body language. A heaviness that won’t let her loose. Won’t let her believe how extraordinary she is.
Lord, why does it always take an older woman to see what young people can’t?
“You don’t believe it,” I say. “That your work is helping me.”
“Sure I do.”
I hear the words, but there’s something in her tone that a mother recognizes as a lie. I circle a hand. “About our visit with Detective Sanchez. I want you to know I was unaware of counterfeiting or the meeting with Simon and Jeremy. I, in fact, feel a bit foolish.”
“Why? They kept it from you.”
“Ah,” I wag my finger. “But I knew—knew—something was going on with that boy. I trusted my instincts back then and I told Simon I thought Jeremy was hiding something. And do you know what happened?"
Rae shakes her head. “Rose, you don’t have to—”
I whip my hand up, silencing her. If I accomplish nothing else, I will not let this young woman question her instincts for the next thirty years. “My generous, amazing, honest husband told me I was crazy. He made me feel like a fool for even suggesting it. He made me question my instincts. So, when it comes to that man in your apartment or Charlie Carter or those awful people who have shunned you, forget them. You followed your instincts. You wrote a great story and put criminals in jail. Celebrate that and don't ever let any man take it from you."
Before Rae can respond, my cell phone rings. Phillip's ringtone.
I glance over at my purse, once again sitting on the back of the sofa cushion. I never place it on countertops or tables. God only knows the germs that thing might carry.
The phone stops ringing—I’ll call him back in a bit—and I gesture to Rae to continue. I like this chat. I like getting to know her.
Except my phone rings again. Jeremy this time. What could be going on that the two of them are calling me within seconds of each other? Dear God, I hope no one's hurt.
"Forgive me,” I say. “That's Jeremy's ring. And the first one was Phillip. Let me make sure they're okay and then I'll call them back."
I dig the phone out and swipe at the screen. "Darling, are you all right?"
"Yes. What's your room number?"
The abrupt words, after what I’ve just found out about his secret meeting, scrapes at my nerves. “Why?"
"We're in the lobby,” he says. “We're coming up."
They're in the lobby.
Stunned, I rattle off the room number, then glance at Rae.
Into the Fire Page 10